


i wanna wake up (where you are)

by irish_gold



Series: Asylum AU [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Psychiatric Ward-AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irish_gold/pseuds/irish_gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and he doesn't know why but the voices in his head get louder and louder and he can no longer hear his thoughts but the sound of voices yelling and screaming at him and <em>he can't stand it<em>.</em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> all grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. x

It started off when he was five; he was sat on a swing. His mum had been pushing him forward and laughing at her son, ‘I’m flying mummy!’ He said his hands letting go of the chains and extending to the sky. Her face had contorted into a grin, ‘Zayn hold on sweetie, you don’t want to fall.’ She warned and pushed him lightly on the swing as he came flying back. He nodded his head and held tightly to the chains.

‘Close your eyes Zayn, you’ll feel like you’re truly flying if you close them.’ She said lightly and Zayn did as he was told. He closed his eyes and bowed his head feeling the cold wind blow at his face. A grin slipped on lips, tugging at the corners.

He was flying! He had the sudden urge to let go of the chains and feel the wind push at his extended arms, but he did not. He knew letting go would upset his mummy, ‘Do you feel like you’re flying baby?’ his mum had asked, still pushing him on the swings.

‘I feel like I’m flying mummy.’ He responded giggling. The park had been empty just the two of them running around and playing around on the playground.

It was a cold day in October, Zayn being the joyous and adventurous child he was had suggested to go to the park, just the two of them. His mum had agreed, ‘How does it feel like Zayn? How does it feel like to fly sweetie?’ his mum asked him.

He had responded by opening his eyes when the swing was up on the sky, ‘It feels amazing mummy.’ He said he heard his mum laughing softly and he turned his head slightly when the swing was back on the ground, ‘Do you wanna fly mummy?’ he asked her feeling guilty that he was the only one enjoying this. ‘I’m fine down here sweetie.’ She responded and pushed him again.

‘Higher mummy! Push me higher!’ He said clapping his hands; his mum did what he said.

He giggled when the swing was pushed higher onto the sky; he closed his eyes again and let the soft humming of the wind lull him into a trance.

_You’re flying Zayn! You’re flying!_ He heard a voice say. The voice was deep and sounded a lot like his father did. Which didn’t make sense because his father was working.

_Zayn aren’t you happy?! You finally got to fly!_ He didn’t respond to the voice, his mummy had said that he couldn’t talk to strangers no matter how nice they were or how much they sounded like his father he could not talk to them.

_Zayn, you’ve got to let go._ The voice said he opened his eyes and looked around the empty park. Tried finding the person that had been talking to him but he found no one, the only adult in the park was his mummy. So where did that voice come from?

_Zayn I’m right here, but ya got to listen to me, let go of the chains! You can’t truly fly if you’re holding on to chains._ The voice said again, Zayn shook his head confused.

‘I can’t let go, mummy said that if I let go I’ll fall. I don’t wanna fall.’ He said softly to the voice, his mummy hadn’t heard him being invested in a phone call she had just received. Probably his daddy, he always called his mummy whilst he was at work.

_Zayn you wanna fly, right?_ The voice asked.

‘Of course I wanna fly!’ He responded.

_So let go!_

‘But what if it’s not safe? What if I get hurt or something? I don’t want a booboo.’

_Trust me Zayn you won’t get hurt. Plus you’ll be flying up high in the sky, you won’t fall._ The voice said to him, Zayn nodded his head. The voice seemed nice and the voice doesn’t sound like the kind of person that would lie to him about flying.

So when his mummy pushed him higher and the swing flew up onto the sky he let go of the chains.

And for a second he was flying, feeling the wind blow at his face and his hands grasp the blue sky in the air he giggled.

‘Zayn!’

The feeling of flying was soon over, he body connected with the cement ground and the world above him turned black.

_I told you, you could fly._

_

_

_

‘Sweetie why’d you let go of the swings?’ the nice lay in a white coat asked him, he was laying on a big bed, his mummy was rubbing circles on his wrist whilst Doniya, his older sister, was sat on a plastic blue chair by his bed looking awfully uncomfortable. His daddy was outside talking to another doctor. Zayn didn’t know what was going on.

‘Because Danny told me too.’ Zayn had decided to call the voice Danny because he knew it was unfair to just call Danny ‘the voice’.

‘Who is Danny?’

‘The voice in my head.’ He replied he didn’t understand why they were asking all of these questions. Had they all not heard Danny?

He heard his mummy gasp, ‘A voice?’ The nice lady asked him, he nodded his head.

‘He told me that if I let go of the chains than I’ll truly be flying.’

‘Has the voice—‘

‘He doesn’t like being called that, his names Danny.’ Zayn cut her off.

‘I’m sorry; did Danny ever talk to you before that?’

‘No but Sarah has, and Blue too.’ He replied smiling at the mentions of the other voices, they were all so nice to him. They always made him smile and laugh.

‘Sarah and Blue? Are they voices too?’

‘Yeah, Blue is an awesome skater! And Sarah likes to play with flowers.’

‘Okay, is there anything else that you want to tell me about? Like do you see stuff that is weird or maybe anymore voices you hear?’

‘Sometimes when I’m playing this random guy is staring at me.’ Zayn says shrugging he whined when he felt his mummy stop rubbing circles on his wrists.

‘Do you know how this man looks like?’

‘No, he never shows himself but I know he’s always watching me.’

He saw the nice lady write something down on her notebook nodding her head when she wrote something specifically down.

‘Mrs. Malik I think I have a few questions of my own. Do you think you and Mr. Malik can step into my office for a few minutes?’ Zayn’s mummy nodded her head and untangled herself from Zayn.

She kissed his forehead and said, ‘I’ll be back sweetie. You be a good boy okay?’

_

_

_

_Name: Zayn Malik_

_Age: Five_

_Gender: Male_

_Birthdate: 12-1-1993_

_Birthplace: Bradford, Yorkshire_

_Illness: Schizophrenia_

_Reasons: Hears voices, hallucinates, and believes he’s being watched._

_Tested on this specific Illness: Yes_


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And all he can think is _How dare she cry, she is the reason for my pain. She is in no position to cry. How dare she cry? ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all grammar and spelling mistakes are my own, this story is unbeta'ed. feedback is always appreciated. x

 

_He heard his daddy screaming to the doctor, his small hands fisted the white hospital sheets in fear he bowed his head listening close to his daddy’s words, ‘My son is not sick! You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ His father yelled anger ran through his voice causing Zayn to shiver._

 

_He didn’t understand why his daddy was mad, Zayn had gotten ill before. So why is today any different? He just had a cold, right? Nothing to serious. ‘Mr. Malik we need you to calm down, your son is ill and all we want to do is help him out but we can’t do that if you’re—‘_

 

_‘My son is not ill! Don’t you dare say that again! I know my son—he is not ill!’ He yelled back his hands fisting at his sides._

 

_‘Mr. Malik your son has a disease that can be treated—‘_

 

_‘My son does not have a disease, if you’re too stupid to see that then I will take my son elsewhere!’ Yaser Malik spat at the doctor his eyes narrowing in anger. Zayn huffed blinking away tears that had formed in his eyes._

 

_He didn’t want to be the reason his daddy go in trouble. He hated when others got in trouble because of him. It wasn’t their fault Zayn was ill._

_

 

It was simple enough that he could ignore the voices; he didn’t have to do much but just ignore the voices in his head. That’s why after a while of not hearing the voices he thought he was cured; he thought that after those four long years of not hearing the little girl’s voice he was no longer ill. Even his parents believed he was cured.

 

That was until Zayn’s 10th birthday, Zayn had woken up in the middle of the night with a pounding in head he was sweating but all Zayn could feel was the cold breeze entering from the crack of the window sill. He remembers crying out in pain and suddenly he hears one thing _‘Hi Zayney, remember me?’_

 

That’s when he realised he wasn’t cured. All that ignoring he had done had just made his illness worse, so after that day he heard the voices much more frequently, every time he got out of bed he would hear a giggle of a voice, every time he was writing or reading he would hear another voice.

 

He couldn’t do anything about the voices, he could no longer ignore them because the longer he ignored them the higher the voices get; they would scream at him if he were ignoring them, the voices would screech at him when he told himself the voices would soon go away. They never did go away. They were stuck in his head.

 

After a while he snapped, he couldn’t stand the voices so he started pulling at his hair hoping that the more pain he caused to his scalp the less he’d hear the voices. He tried everything to get rid of the voices but all he resulted in doing was make it so much worse.

 

After a while he gave up on trying to rid the voices.

 

_

 

 

It was easy to sit down and watch the world go by, watch the ones you love grow old, watch the friends you once made become strangers, watch as the whole world turned from blue to grey to yellow to red. It was easy to watch from the sidelines.

 

Much easier to watch the world go by then to take part in it, Zayn was content to watch the world change right before his eyes.

 

He didn’t want to take part in a world that would look at him with eyes of confusion and weakness, he didn’t want to take part in a world that when they see who he is and what takes part inside him they cringe in disgust and walk away not wanting to be the one who caught the illness he was ‘contaminated’ with. They would flinch if he tried to touch them, as if his illness was contagious.

 

Where these people so gullible that they believed every single thing that are told to them? It disgusted Zayn that he himself was part of a society that was too stupid to realise their own mistakes, that where to oblivious to realise that they were the ones causing all the conflicts in the world.

 

So Zayn did the only thing he knew, to take a seat and watch as the world played with matches.

 

And Zayn was content to live that way, because he knew this world was not ready for the truth. ‘Good morning Zayn.’ It was his mother, her soft voice brought and immediate comfort to the young boy; Zayn opened his eyes and watched as his mum smiled to him from the doorway. Her hair was up in a messy ponytail she was wearing a bright red shirt and dark trousers that made her eyes stand out.

 

He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked, how thankful he was for her. But he didn’t, because he knew that speaking meant he had forgiven her and the rest of the world. And he wasn’t for that, he wasn’t ready to forgive yet.

 

‘How do you feel Zayn?’ She asked him a little bit of hope sparing in her voice. Zayn groaned internally pushing himself off of the bed he made his way to the bathroom completely ignoring his mother’s concern, because he knew she didn’t really care. She didn’t care how he felt or how he was doing.

 

She had done so much damage she had tried everything in her power to make sure Zayn went through so much hell; she couldn’t accept the fact that her son wasn’t normal. That her son wouldn’t be like the other boys playing out in the park without a care in the world—

 

She didn’t want to admit that her son wasn’t like that. Why would she? She knew that any child of hers would be normal, her son would grow up to be someone important not some middle aged man stuck in a hospital because of some illness,

 

So when Zayn had turned six and kept on telling her and his daddy that he no longer heard the voices in his head she was happy, overjoyed that maybe her son wouldn’t have to spend his life in a hospital ward full of people who were metal.

 

She was so happy that her son no longer heard the voices she cried with joy!

 

 

It was one of the most blessed moments of her life; she had received a blessing from her God! That moment she finds out her son no longer has to bear an illness of his shoulders was such a jubilant moment.

 

So after those four long years of having a normal son and you wake up in the middle of the night on his tenth birthday to hear him yelling out bloody murder and you run to his room with your husband trailing right behind you and you open the door to see your son rocking his small form back and forth covering his ears.

 

He’s yelling out _stop! Stop, please stop!_ and _mummy make the voices go away. Please mummy the voices are hurting me_ all you can think to do is help your son get better. Help your son no longer hurt anymore because seeing your son in pain is just one of the worst things you can ever experience as a mother.

 

But who can blame you when you try to heal your son, even if it means hurting him in the process.

 

Zayn’s mum sighs and walks out of the room; it was a wonder how she still woke up every day hoping that by some higher being Zayn would start talking to her again. Even if it was for just a few seconds. She would take anything her son gave her.

 

She closes the door behind her and walks to where her other daughters are sat waiting for her to bring them their breakfasts, and maybe she’ll have to live like this. With only three of her children being normal and talking to her.

 

That was the price with becoming a mum.

 

_

 

 _‘Zayney you should sing for us, we love your voice.’_ The voice says making Zayn shiver, even after years of hearing the voices he couldn’t get used to the fact that they’re in his head and they couldn’t talk to him anytime no matter the time or place.

 

‘ _Yeah Zayn, you have such a nice voice.’_ Another voice says and Zayn can’t help but compare it to his little sister, Safaa’s voice. How sweet and young the voice is and—

 

 _‘Oh Zayney please sing, please, please,_ please _sing for us!’_ The voice begs him Zayn knows better than to ignore the voices, he knows that if he doesn’t respond or sing to the voice they will go into a fit and would start yell and screech until he finally complied to their wishes.

 

He opened his mouth and quietly started singing a lullaby; his voice is barely above a whisper it comes out hoarse because of how long he had kept quiet. As he sings he can hear the voices in his head hum along to the tune and it was times like these that made Zayn question everything. If these voices were in his head how would they be humming along to the lullaby?

 

He continues singing and listens closely to the light hums and giggles coming from the voices in his head. Almost as if on instinct he stops singing, _‘Oh Zayney that was so good! Will you sing some more for us?’_ and Zayn would laugh at you if you were to ask him if the voices ever made his stomach curl with butterflies in ‘em.

 

Because even if it were compliments coming from the voices in his head he couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit happy and special.

 

The voices made him feel so much special than his parents ever made him feel.

 

_

 

When Zayn was eleven his mum had locked him in his room, without any food or anything to entertain himself. He hadn’t known why but he knew that if he had done what his mummy said she would be happy for a little while.

 

She had told him that he’d have to stay in his room for a long time. So he did what she told him to do, he sat on his bed with his hands on his lap and tried to ignore the multiple times the voices in his head would try to start a conversation with him. It worked for about an hour.

 

After that he could no longer ignore the voices and instead of quieting down like they always did they got louder to the point where Zayn swore the voices where no longer in his head, it was as if he could hear the voices echoing in his room. It scared him how loud they were.

 

‘Stop it! Please be quiet! You’re hurting my ears, please be quiet!’ Zayn had yelled wanting the voices to stop because the pounding in his head hurt him so much and he didn’t want to be in pain anymore he started yelling back at the voices telling them to shut up!

 

He even started pounding at the door yelling at anyone who was in the house to open the door to his room because he couldn’t stand to be trapped in the small room with all these voices yelling at him anymore.

 

He didn’t know why but the more he yelled at the voices the more louder they got and soon enough Zayn could no longer hear his own thoughts all he could hear was the taunting voices and how they mimicked his pain, how they mocked his pain and made fun of the way he started to cry. He kept pounding hard on the door begging his mummy to let him out because he could no longer be in this room. _Please mummy open the door! The voices are making my head hurt mummy! Please mummy open the door!_ But she seemed to be ignoring his calls for help.

 

After a while the pain came to be too much and the world simply went to black, the pounding in his head disappeared and even the voices faded into the dark.

 

He didn’t wake up till five days later but when he does there’s an ache in his tummy and his mouth is parched and his lips are dry. He tries turning the knob to the door but he realises that it’s still locked and in the course of those five days his mummy had not even bothered to check if he were alright. So when she finally does open the door and she finds her son in the corner of his room looking pale and has blood running down his fists he doesn’t look at her.

 

 

He even ignores her when she sets down a bottle of water next to him and a bowl of food beside him, she ignores her when she tries to apologise saying _Zayn sweetie I’m only doing this for you, so you can get better,_ he can’t look at her the same because—

 

Because what kind of mother would ignore her son when he is on the brink of killing himself just to get rid of the ache in his stomach and the pain in his head and the screeching of the voices still echoing in the walls of his mind

 

Even after that horrifying and traumatic moment of his life his mummy still tries to get rid of the voices in Zayn’s head.

 

Zayn wants to hate her for all that she did to him but no matter what he pities her and her foolish thoughts.

 

_

 

Zayn doesn’t know what to think when he wakes up in the middle of the day and sees men in a white come into his room knocking down his door. They pull him up from his lying position on the bed and harshly yell at him to get changed.

 

He doesn’t know what to think when they start pulling him from his room and drag him out of his home, he looks at him mum who’s standing at the edge of the kitchen door letting the men manhandle her only son out of his own home.

 

He doesn’t know what to think when he sees his dad opening the front door for the men and nods at them when they ask him if he’s sure he wants them to take Zayn away. He doesn’t know what to say but all he knows is that these people he thought were his family was allowing strange men take him from his home, from his haven.

 

He doesn’t know what to do or say when he hears Waliyha yelling at the strange men _to let go of Zayn,_ _let go of my brother! You pricks let him go! Don’t take him away! He hasn’t done anything to you! Mum papa tell those strange men to let go of Zayn,_ but mum and papa ignore Waliyha’s cries and pull her back when she tries to pull the men away from Zayn.

 

Zayn tries to ignore the pain in his heart when he sees the tears rolling down his little sister’s beautiful face; he tries to ignore the way his heart breaks into pieces when he sees her trying but failing to pull Zayn away from the men.

It seems like hours but only a mere five minutes before he sees the front door, Zayn takes one last glance to the place he had once called home and looks at Waliyha straight in the eyes and says quietly, _‘Don’t worry about me babe, I’ll be all right. Be careful, alright?’_

And with those few words Zayn is pulled out of the house and pushed into a white van where he is forced into a seat and a man starts tightening the seatbelt on him.

 

He doesn’t know what to do when he sees his mother out the window crying on her husband’s shoulder and looking at Zayn as if she were asking him for forgiveness.

 

And all he can think is _How dare she cry, she is the reason for my pain. She is in no position to cry. How dare she cry?_

 


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He goes two days without hearing the voices in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all grammar and spelling mistakes are my own.

He doesn’t hear the voices for two whole days and he doesn’t know if it’s because the white walls and dead-bolted door are more of a worry to him than any voice in his head could be or because of the two pills one of the nurses had given him, he guesses it’s the latter.

 

 

He hasn’t seen a thing—a person—since two days ago, since the men had dragged him into this hospital and shoved him on to the bed tying his wrists to the bed as the injected him with a white clear liquid that looked too thick to be water but too thin to be IV, the liquid had made him pass out just merely two minutes after it was injected.

 

 

He woke up the day after he was injected with the clear liquid, he hasn’t slept since then. He keeps _waiting_ for the voices to come back to him, hoping that somehow he’d hear a familiar voice that echoed through his mind because he couldn’t sit still. He needed something to distract him from the fact that right outside that white wall on the left wall are people looking at him with curious eyes. He needed to forget that two days ago he was forced out of his home and into an asylum full of mental patients.

 

 

But it seemed every time he asked the voices to come back they just merely ignored him; he knew the voices were there. He could tell that they were just hiding in spaces between his mind and that they’ll come out when they’re tired of ignoring him because he knows the voices will come back; _they always do._

 

 

But somehow—someway the voices in his head go for two days ignoring him and _he can’t handle that_.  He _needs to hear them._ And there’s an itching at the back of his wrists, he keeps pulling at the sensitive skin pulling it even when he sees the blood trickling down his tanned hand.

  

 

He _needs to hear a voice_. Not just any voice, a voice that he’s familiar with.

 

 

He pinches at the irritated skin on his wrist not knowing what else to do, _come out voices please,_ he begs but all he hears is silence. He thinks he’s going to go _mad_ if he doesn’t hear a voice in his head _because it’s just too quiet_ , he can’t stand the silence.

 

 

The white walls in the room are making him go crazy because after a while he feels someone looking at him, staring daggers at him _but he just can’t see the person_.  He starts squirming looking down at his hands and continues pulling at the skin that turned purple by how hard he’s been scratching at it. He tries to ignore the feeling of someone staring at him because _no ones in the room_. He’s all alone, no voices, no person. No one. Just him and the white walls. But.

 

 

He knows someone’s in the room, he can feel their eyes watching him and _he needs to find this person that keeps staring at him_. He looks around the room biting at his bottom lip scratching at his skin trying to find the person that was watching him.

 

 

‘ _Come out whoever you are, I know you’re in here, I’m not stupid. Stop hiding!’_ He says weakly hoping that the person can’t hear the crack in his voice, can’t see the way his lip in quivering.

  

 

He waits and waits for someone to come out of nowhere and admit that they had been staring at Zayn for the entire time but as the hours drag and the minutes pass no one comes up and owns up to the fact they had been staring at Zayn, _in fact_ he can feel many more people staring at him.

  

 

As if he was a rare animal that they’ve never seen before.

 

 

He keeps calling at the people trying to get them out of there hiding places, screaming at them to come out, he’s _not scared of them._

 

And as he screams into the white and pale room he pulls at the irritated skin on his wrist and keeps biting on to his bottom lip even pulling out blood from the lip, he cringes in disgust when he tastes the metallic copper taste of the blood.

 

 

He doesn’t know when he passes out but when he wakes up he’s no longer in the white room and the door is no longer bolted locked but instead there was a mere golden lock on the knob, and Zayn wants to get up and grab at the knob see if he can get out of the room but his arms feel numb and his legs feel as if they were being stabbed with tiny needles.

 

 

The room he’s in is no longer white but a dirty crème colour and there’s a window at the corner of the room the shudders are pulled down closed. He can barely make out the sunlight streaming from the crack of the window.

 

 

The air in the room smells of stake paint and _hospital_ , it’s like he can smell the needles and medicine being used on the people in the mental hospital. And Zayn just thinks he’s going crazy because how could you smell the needles and the pills if _he’s still in a room with a closed door and the only air is coming from the crack in the window_ , but.

 

 

Zayn looks down at his arms and almost gasps when he sees a white piece of gauze is wrapped around his right wrist, though he can faintly see the bruise and cuts he left on his wrists. He wants to know _what happened and how long had it been since_ he last was awake and why had he passed out.

 

 

He closes his eyes because _he can’t just keep staring at those walls_ and sighs hoping that somehow he’ll just pass out again so he doesn’t have to bear with the silence in the room and. He hears the knob on the door start to turn but not before he hears a soft _click_ that comes when someone is unlocking the door. And with his eyes closed he waits until he hears shoes hitting the white tiled floor and stop somewhere in the room.

 

 

‘Mr. Malik are you awake.’ And the voice is soft and quiet almost sounding so kind and gentle, but Zayn knows better than to believe a tone like that, he knows that when someone uses a tone like that with him  they’re just going to end up hurting him _and he doesn’t want to get hurt anymore_. He tries to act as if he was asleep but he doesn’t hear the person in the room walking out in fact he doesn’t hear anything but silence again.

 

 

Mr. Malik it’s okay if you don’t want to talk but I am not stupid, I know you’re not asleep. Your hands are clenched into fists, you’re tense Mr. Malik.’ The person in the room says again and _dammit why can’t this person just leave like everyone else?_

 

Zayn sighs but opens his eyes and blinks twice to get used to the harsh light coming from the lights up on the ceiling that seemed to have turned on when the doctor had come into the room. The person that had come into the room is standing beside him wearing a white button down shirt and dark trousers with a clipboard in his hand and. If Zayn were someone else he’d probably trust the person, but he’s not.

 

 

The man had slick brown hair pushed back to make him look more presentable, he has bright brown eyes that look so dull and hold age in the colour. He’s not smiling at Zayn his thin lips are set on a line and Zayn notices the small wrinkles on the side of his lips and—

 

 

‘Ah I knew you weren’t asleep.’ The man says and Zayn notices that his accent is so thick and he guesses he’s not anywhere from England and—

 

 

‘Would you stand up for me Mr. Malik?’ Zayn looks at the man he hesitates before standing up and groaning when the feeling of being stabbed on his legs feel more harsh, ‘The feeling will come back to your arms soon and don’t worry about the pain in your legs that just a passing thing.’ The doctor says finally smiling at Zayn.

 

 

He doesn’t even frown when Zayn doesn’t respond or give a smile back, instead he watched silently when Zayn stares down at his legs, they’re covered with his dark trousers that seem to be the same ones he had come into the hospital with and _that’s gross they haven’t even given him other clothes._

‘You’ll be given different clothes as soon as we can get our hands on a new pair of trousers but for now bear with us, now, I am here to escort you into the meeting room. Is that all right?’ Zayn looks at the man waiting for him to lead the way out because _Zayn hasn’t been here long enough to be able to go out of the rooms he’d been put into_.

 

 

The doctor turns around leading Zayn out the door and into a hall covered in the same crème colour from the walls in his room except the walls in the hall are so much brighter and look cleaner than the ones in his room.

 

 

They walk till they get to the end of the hall and Zayn has counted twenty-three doors (not including his) in the hall. Back and front. The doctor stands in front of the lift clicking at the button on the wall. The lift comes with a _ding_ they enter it and the man presses another button inside the lift. (Zayn can tell they’re going up by the empty feeling he gets in his stomach when the lift starts moving.)

 

 

The doors open with another _ding_ and Zayn is struck with the smell of _coffee and tea_. The room he’s in is big, bigger than the hall and his room combined, and there’s chairs loitered around the room. About thirty are put into a circular formation in the centre of the room. There’s a few people sitting on the chairs but they seems to be in their own worlds not even paying attention to Zayn.

 

 

‘You can take a seat wherever Mr. Malik feel free to get a drink, we have water and coffee.’ The doctor says and he starts walking to the chair that seems to be in the centre of the room. Zayn stays still, frozen even, in front of the doors of the lift, looking at the room and the people in the room.

 

 

Zayn thinks _I already don’t want to be here. I’d rather be locked up in the room then be here._ But he walks to a chair that’s not surrounded by people and is by the corner of the room, Zayn calculates the amount of seconds it’d take him to escape and get out unnoticed .18 seconds.

 

 

The man from before clear his throat and calls for the rest of the people in the room to gather around him and take a seat in the nearest chair. And most of the people listen to him a few linger by the doors that seem to lead to a staircase. Zayn also notices that most of them are trembling or their hands are fisted at their sides.

 

 

‘Well I’m glad to see you are all here today.’ The man says looking around and catching the eyes of many patients.  Zayn stares intently on the floor. It’s a blue golden tiled floor. Purely ugly.

 

 

‘For those who are new I’m called Paul Higgins, I’m here to talk to you about your problems and whatever is bothering you, I’m kind of like your instructor in some way but not really. So like always I’ll go around the room and you will all introduce yourselves.’

 

 

Paul Higgins turns to his right and prods the boy beside him, he has curly brown hair and wild green eyes and _damn he’s good looking._ The boy has a frown set on his lips but he opens his mouth to talk and if Zayn hadn’t been listening he’d have thought the voice was coming from else because the curly haired boy has such a deep and low voice.

 

 

‘I’m Harry, nineteen, I’m here because I have psychosis, ‘s all.’ Harry says looking at Paul Higgins. He nods his head then turns to the boy beside Harry.

 

 

The boy has blond hair but Zayn can see the brown roots peeking from under the bad dye job, he’s biting at his lip and keeps unclenching and clenching his fists, ‘I’m Niall, I’m—I’m twenty, I have a Panic Disorder.’ And he turns nervously to Paul Higgins who nods at him and smiles kindly at him. ‘Thank you Niall.’ He says quietly at Zayn can’t help thinking that Paul somehow cares for the blond boy—Niall—somehow. Niall smiles at him.

 

 

Harry beside him smiles at Niall too grabbing at the trembling hand and giving it a light squeeze and— _oh_ they’re dating, because as soon as Paul turns to another person Harry has his lips on Niall’s pale neck giving him little kisses that seem to be calming the trembling blond. Though there was a pink tint of embarrassment on Niall’s cheeks.

 

 

Zayn turns to the person who’s talking right now, ‘I’m Liam. Um Liam Payne.  I’m twenty also and err… I’m here because I have PPD, Paranoid Person Disorder.’ He looks so embarrassed and he turns to the boy next to him, he has feathered brown hair and blue eyes dark, darker than Niall’s, and he’s smirking at Liam.

 

 

‘Thank you dear Liam for your introduction,’ Says the pixie-faced boy he glances at everyone in the room showing off his pearly whites. ‘I’m Louis Tomlinson as you all know. I have PTSD.’ And Louis is still grinning when he says that.

 

 

He’s a small thing, Louis, and has a Cheshire cat smile and _he’s just as pretty as the boys before him._ And Zayn can’t help staring at him whilst the rest of the people go after Louis, Louis doesn’t even notice Zayn’s eyes on him till he hears— ‘Mr. Malik—hello Mr. Malik.’ Zayn’s head snaps to the side and he sees everyone’s eyes on him.

 

 

‘Would you like to introduce yourself?’ Zayn shakes his head because no he doesn’t want to introduce himself, Paul sighs but accepts his answer and turns to the person beside him. The session goes by and Zayn tries to ignore Louis’s dark blue-grey eyes staring at him, he can even feel him smirking.

 

 

But dammit it’s not his fault when he turns to look at Louis and gets caught.

 


End file.
